


In Stitches

by theimaginesyouneveraskedfor



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:43:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor/pseuds/theimaginesyouneveraskedfor
Summary: Reader is the local seamstress in Dale and finds herself grieving while awaiting a new life.





	In Stitches

“Ugh, would you stop?” You scowled at Bard as he once more turned and tore the thread from your needle, “I would think if Bain could hold still for five minutes, you’d have the self-restraint to do the same.”

“Sorry,” Bard swept his hand over his wavy hair and retook his stance before you, the hem of his jacket brushing against your rounded stomach, “I just…I can’t stop thinking. About everything.”

“Tell me about it,” You grumbled as you began to remove the rippled stitch he had ruin, “I don’t know what I’m going to do when…” Your voice trailed off as you focused on re-threading your needle, “I shouldn’t be harping to you. You’ve got three young ones and a lot more depending on you now that you’re king.”

“Being a parent is hard,” He sighed, his eyes lingering the taught fabric of your blouse; even untucked, it hugged your stomach tightly, “You must be close.”

“Too close,” You reached for a pin as you set aside your needle, “This shouldn’t take me long to finish. I’ve got to let out the shoulders a touch and finish the cuffs, but you won’t look a vagrant on your coronation day.”

“I don’t care how I look,” He rolled his eyes as he carefully slid the jacket down his arms and you took it gently, “I have more pressing duties than a cursed crown and feast.”

“The people need it,” You argued as you slid the jacket into a cotton sleeve to protect the fabric, “Especially after Smaug. You must christen our new home.” You rubbed your stomach as you turned back to the king, a new habit you had formed since you had found yourself colliding with every chair and table, “We still have much to rebuild.”

“I know,” He leaned against a shelf, looking you over with concern, “Your sure you’ll make it to coronation day? You look ready to burst within the week.”

“I’ll make it,” You dropped your hand and took up his jacket to set it daintily with the rest of your pending work, “I only wish…Edgar…but you can’t change the past.”

“Y/N,” Bard fixed his posture, separating himself from the shelf, “If you need anything–”

“I am not yours to worry about,” You waved away his offer, “I can handle the child myself when it arrives.”

“It’s hard work,” He prodded.

“Yes, well, I’m afraid there isn’t much to be done for it,” You neared a chair and braced the table edge as you began to lower yourself, Bard taking your arm to help you safely to your seat, “I hope your cooks are planning for a large roast. I think I may just be ravenous enough by the banquet to devour one on my own.”

“There’ll be much and more,” Bard stood next to the table, his hand atop it as he leaned on one foot, “You sure you’re alright?”

“If I have to tell you again, I’ll tear your head off,” You threatened, wiping away the sweat on your cheek with your sleeve, “Who knew carrying a child made one so moody.”

“Alright, alright,” He relented with a hand over his heart, “I surrender…I hope you’ve as elaborate attire as I do for the special night.”

“Sure, I’ll look ravishing with silk stretched over my corpulence,” Your voice was bitter as you folded your hands atop your stomach, “Perhaps, I should forgo the whole affair.”

“I don’t think so. If I must dress a fool for the people, then so must you,” He smirked with a wry quirk of his brow, “As your king, I command it.”

“No one would miss the roly-poly seamstress,” You mumbled, knowing there was little argument to be had.

“I would,” He insisted, setting his weight on both feet, “Now, the children will be waiting.” He took his faded brown jacket from the hook, “I am sure there would be enough dinner for you to join.”

“No, thank you,” You would have risen but it would be more work than you could bear, though you weren’t entirely certain you could, “And you must be rid of that damned coat. It smells of fish…I fear you’ll never beat it out. And the salt stains–”

“Yes, yes, I know,” He turned back to you as he neared the door, adjusting his fraying lapel, “One day…I’ll even allow you the honour of burning it.”

“I’ll hold you to that promise,” You pointed a finger at him staunchly, “Now, go. Tell the children I say hello. Oh, and tell Tilda I need to see her again for a final fitting.”

“Yes, my lady,” He bowed mockingly before he opened the door with a flourish, “I’ll send her on the morrow. Perhaps, I shall be in myself.”

“Good night, Bard,” You called after him, “Your majesty.”

“Stop calling me that,” He shot back as he pulled closed the door slowly behind him, “Good night.”

The door clicked shut and you heard him amble down the steps, the tension leaving your shoulders as you languished in the stiff wooden chair. Your feet were pulsing in agony and your hips felt ready to crack. Your little shop was a single room below your apartment and you dreaded the eventuality of climbing the stairs. Your stomach snarled in hunger and you thought of the leftover meat pie you had tucked away in your pantry. The ascent would certainly be worth the effort. And the relief of your bed.

* * *

Bard had claimed to have looked ridiculous in the gold-trimmed jacket you had made him. The words made you scoff as you glanced at yourself in the looking glass before you. His garnet-coloured overcoat had seemed immaculate across his shoulders while the hideous canary yellow mess resembled a tent on your inflated figure. You were glad the king wasn’t present to witness the atrocity.

Even after you had let out the bodice for the inches you had gained in only the last week, the fabric strained across your stomach uncomfortably. You had added an extra layer of charmeuse to the skirts by it had done little to help. You looked like a sac of flour waddling around in your gown and you swore at yourself for allowing Bard to talk you into it. In your skirt and blouse, you were more able to hide your condition, though it wasn’t possible to completely conceal it.

You sat down as you stared at the pair of slippers you were supposed to wear to the banquet. You hung your head in defeat and ran your fingernail across your stomach soothingly. If Edgar was here, he’d laugh and tell you how beautiful you were. He made even the most blatant lies seem true. Alas, he had perished with Laketown and all that had went with it while you were left to raise a fatherless child.

You shoved your feet into the pale slippers, squirming to squeeze your heels into the silken traps. You pulled yourself up by the table laboriously and panted as you averted your eyes from the mirror. There was nothing else for you to do, nothing else to wear as you had outgrown all but two blouses and a single skirt.

You took the fawn cape from its peg and threw it over your shoulders as you ambled for the door with a forlorn shudder. You would have to smile through the coronation as the laces dug into your back and the material pinched your flesh. Bard would never let you hear the end of it and as king, he could make it quite the ordeal.

The hall was hushed by the time you reached it, the ceremony already happening as your extra weight kept you from haste. Your skirts billowed around your lumbering gait and you pushed your way through the doorway and the enraptured crowd. Bard was swearing his fealty as King of Dale, his children in their place of honour as they watched with excitement. You wondered how he could juggle so much responsibility when you choked at the thought of a single child.

By the time the ritual ended, your feet ached and your back was little better. You waddled along with the swathes of people towards the banquet hall and were thankful when you found a seat among the masses, removing the cloak which was making you sweat. The long tables were decorated with linen clothes of gold and plates full of food lined the surface and you were among the first to dig into the first course as you quickly forgot your pains for your glutton.

The music kicked up as you finished nibbling on a lemon cake and you groaned enviously as you watched the bodies flood the floor. Back in Laketown, Edgar would sweep you up in the middle of your own kitchen and sway with you across the musty floorboards. Were he here now, you were certain he would drag you into the crowd.

Sniffing back the memories, you wiped your mouth with a napkin and plotted a path out of the hall. You’d rather not stay and watch those more able as they laughed, drank, and danced. You were suddenly embarrassed that you were there alone and angry that fate had treated you so unfairly. Grasping the sturdy arms of the chair, you grunted as you tried to push yourself to your feet but found yourself collapsing against the seat with heaving breaths.

“Y/N,” The deep voice was growing too familiar and you cringed as you heard the footsteps nearing, “How goes your night?”

“Terribly,” You snarled as the king appeared before you lithely, “Ugh, please help me up.”

You reached out your hand and after a brief pause, Bard took your arm and helped lift your rotund figure from the chair. Your lower back rang with agony and you reached back for your crumpled cloak.

“Are you off so soon?” You heard the disappointment in his voice as he watched you shuffle around the chair gracelessly, “I was hoping you’d stay and celebrate…You look wonderful.”

“I look like an overgrown canary,” You bemoaned as you continued past him, “Please, I do still have eyes and a mirror.”

“Wait,” He grabbed your arm before you could make five full steps, taking your cloak and tossing it on your vacated chair, “Y/N, I mean it,” He was before you once more, a smile lining his face as he gazed down at you, “Truly. I can’t recall ever seeing you in a gown so lovely. Aside from the get up, you look absolutely radiant.”

“Oh, please, get out of my way before I commit treason,” You threatened as you balled a fist, “I am fifty pounds heavier than I should be and I move like a dying cow.”

“Your cheeks are rosy and your eyes, despite their fire, are dazzling in this light,” He asserted, still holding you in place, “The only thing I find repulsive is your inability to take a compliment.”

“What do you want from me?” You whined, unfurling your fist to rub your stomach, “There’s nothing for me here. I’m grumpy, sore, and I certainly can’t dance.”

“Can’t?” His brow raised in challenge, “I do think you misjudge yourself.”

“No, don’t, please,” Your pleas were quieted as his hand left your arm and took your free hand, kissing the back of it with gentility, “I can’t–”

“You would deny a king?” He teased with a menacing glimmer, “Oh, Y/N, just because you’re with child it does not mean your life is over. Trust me,” He turned and began to pull you past the table as you failed to dig your slippers into the board, “Don’t fret, I will not tax you or the baby.”

“Oh, no, please,” You protested weakly as you found yourself moved easily by the tall king, “I can’t. It’s not even possible with my stomach and–”

“I’ll make it possible. Anything to keep you from leaving so early in the night,” He chided as he pulled you to the middle of the floor, dozens of eyes following the swish of your skirts, “Now,” He raised your hands in his as the music eased to a moderate tempo and he guided your feet, your steps uncertain as your stomach brushed against his, “There you go.”

“I probably look like a hog in slippers,” You grimaced and he merely returned a smile, “Everyone’s staring.”

“They aren’t,” He assured you, “And if they are, it’s likely because they’re struck by your beauty.”

“Why are you doing this?” He twirled you carefully and you could do little but follow his lead. He turned you so that you were next to him, his hands releasing yours so that one of his arms fell around your waist and he pressed his side to yours.

“Because, I want you to smile,” He answered as he leaned in, “And to have fun.”

“Bard, I–” You felt a sudden contraction and a trickle of fluid down your thigh. You felt the flow continue as another ripple of pain seized your body and you pulled away from Bard with a cry, gripping your stomach frantically. “Oh, oh, oh.”

“Y/N,” His hand found the small of your back as you hunched over your stomach in agony, “Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not,” You wheezed, “I think the baby is coming.”

“Oh, uh, don’t panic,” The music filled the air still and bodies swirled unaware of your distress, “I’ve done this before, Y/N, you just need to breathe.” He looked over your head and you waved to fingers in an unknown signal, “Just stay with me. And breathe!”

You had been holding the breath in your lungs and released it slowly as a jagged pang echoed through you. Your slippers were soaked in your bodily fluid and were growing slippery across the floorboard as Bard guided you through the crowd. You were panting as you approached the door, Sigrid waiting with an anxious stare as she held one open for her father and you.

“The midwife?” He asked as he herded you down the corridor, “You sent for her?”

“Bain has gone to fetch her,” She supplied, “And I’ve told Tilda to play with her friends until I send for her.”

You could barely focus on their words as you passed through another door and into the brisk air of the night. As you turned the first corner, you became distressed and grabbed onto Bard tightly. “Where are we going? This isn’t the right way.”

“We’re going to my house,” He said evenly, “I won’t have you giving birth in that attic of yours. Besides, you’ll need someone to tend to you.”

“Ugh, why are you such an ass!” You hissed as another contraction washed over you, “Why can’t you just let me take care of—ah!”

Bard was supporting you as your legs shook in pain and you could only count the seconds until you found yourself in a bed, a sheet of sweat across your forehead as Sigrid helped unlace your bodice.

“Such a nice dress, you don’t want to ruin it,” She sang and you lifted your arms as she pulled it over your head, leaving you in just your shift as you fell back against a stack of pillows.

A knock came at the door and Sigrid answered it in whispers, a woman you recognized entered with a bag on her arm. Thilma, with her square jaw and silver hair, neared the bed as your vision hazed and you saw the dark outline of Bard in the doorway. You looked to the midwife as she barked orders to Sigrid and reached under your shift to feel your pelvis.

You felt something on your hand and looked over to find Bard on the other side of the bed, sitting calmly as he rubbed a thumb along the back of your hand. You squeezed as another stab resounded up your torso and you clenched your jaw with a suppressed bellow. You could not even dread the burden of the child to come as it tore through you violently and you fought to keep your cries muted.

* * *

The babe squealed in your arms as the midwife set him against your chest, your sweat-soaked shift sagging from your shoulder. Your hair smelled of your labour and every muscle in your body hurt but not as much as they had minutes ago. Your breath steadied as you gazed down at the miraculous child, his hair the same straw as his father’s though his skin was as dark as your own.

You nearly forgot that you had been clinging to Bard’s hand as you lifted a finger to trace the small bump of your son’s nose and his wails quieted. You closed your eyes in relief and sighed deeply; perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad now that you had someone to hold. The babe wriggled against you, settling against you with a murmur and you resisted the urge to fall asleep.

“He’s gorgeous,” Bard cooed as he peeked over at the boy’s pudgy features, “Like his mother.”

“Oh, Bard, why are you so…kind?”

“Have I any reason not to be?” He pondered as he watched Thilma retreat out the door and shifted so that he was sitting beside you against the pillows, “You’ve done so much for me and my children.”

“You pay me to,” You scowled but another smile overtook you as the child’s eyes explored the room.

“There are a dozen seamstresses out there,” He shrugged and reached up to rub a damp lock of the babe’s hair between his fingers, “And I must admit, I frequent your services for more than your skill.”

“Sure,” You said dryly, laying a soft kiss on the child’s head, “Pity?”

“Not quite,” He chuckled, “Y/N, I have more than pity for you…I respect you. Admire you.” His grey eyes grazed over you and you looked away meekly; you must have been a mess after your ordeal, “I know this is not the best timing. What, with Edgar only just gone and the baby arrived…”

“Bard, please, don’t say it,” Your heart clutched at the thought of his confession, “Even if you meant it, you’re king and I’m a widowed mother. Common, at that.”

“I’ve been king less than a year. I’ve spent more time as common as you and I have no intent of letting a mere crown interfere with my heart,” He reached up to brush back a stray lock of your tangled hair which had loosed from its plait during your labour, “But I would not command you to feel the same. Though now I do have the power to do so.”

You smiled at his poor jape and he chuckled once more.

“See, beautiful,” He praised, “Utterly and completely. I do mean it, though. You’ve a right to your feelings and to be free of me, if you so wish.” He looked down as he fiddled with the hem of the jacket you had sewn him, “But know, that I will always be here. Waiting.”

“Bard…you have three children already and now an entire kingdom on your shoulders,” You argued, “I could not burden you with myself and this orphan.”

“Orphan? Why, he will have the most loving home with you as his mother,” Bard slowly looked to you, “The question is, do you have enough love for me?”

You chewed your lip, glancing down at your newborn child. You had not even decided on a name and you had a man at your shoulder asking for your heart. You had been so worried about the child that you had not even noticed the king standing on your doorstep. So often he had been at your heels as you worked, meeting you by chance when you ventured out to the market, or when you were delivering your wares to local customers.

How had you failed to see that the man was so desperate for your attention? A man who had filled your thoughts so often that you had buried such guilty dreams below the grief for your deceased husband. How could you think to accept Bard’s proposition as you held another’s child in your arms?

“I don’t know…It’s not that I couldn’t…or don’t…It’s only, Edgar, he–” You gulped wistfully, “He’s dead.”

“Yes, but it’s not your fault,” Bard’s voice was low, “You know that, don’t you?”

“I…yes—maybe, but he was my husband, not dead a year, and look at me,” Your lip trembled as you spoke, “Sitting here with you as if he never lived. As if the last of him is not breathing in my arms.”

“You’re allowed to be lonely, Y/N,” Bard’s shoulder rested against yours and his hand touched your elbow gently, “But he never would have wanted you to be so miserable. Especially, not on his account.”

“I guess,” You considered his words as a tear rolled down your cheek, “But I’m not anymore.” You looked once more at your child and couldn’t help another smile, embracing your son even tighter.

“No, you’re not,” Bard agreed and you felt the tension leave his body as he leaned heavier against the pillows, “Whatever you need, I’m here. Whenever.”

“Thank you,” You cradled your son in one arm as you reached over to touched Bard’s hand, “Truly. I need…you. I don’t think I can do it alone.”

“You’ll be a wonderful mother,” He tilted his head and gazed warmly down at the bundle in your arms, “First, he needs a name. That’s the hard part, you know.”

“Sure,” You squinted at the king wryly before returning your attention to the child, resting your head against Bard’s shoulder, “I like Edmund. He looks like an Edmund.”


End file.
